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You didn’t plan on going viral. You just wanted to live your truth. Your truth being: bald-capped, white-suited, aviator-wearing “Mr. Worldwide” for one night only.

Pitbull was in town. Mr. 305 himself. And if that wasn’t reason enough to go all in, your best friend had promised front-row tickets if you fully committed to the look. So you did — spray-tanned, fake-goateed, and beaming under the stage lights like a disco ball of delusion.

hawkeye: the guy who yells "i'm out of arrows" mid-battle like that’s supposed to inspire confidence, the dude with a farmhouse secret family straight out of a midwestern hallmark movie.

you really looked at thor—sparkly thunder prince, tony—walking rolex with a jetpack, natasha—elegant murder ballerina, and thought: yeah. me too.

sir, you are a suburban dad LARPing at the apocalypse.

hawkeye’s contribution to the team: “what if i shot a stick real fast?” hawkeye’s greatest enemy: stairs.

hawkeye canonically survived aliens, killer robots, and three hours trapped in a quinjet with tony stark’s playlist, but the real miracle is that he keeps getting invited back.

and yet— you squint into the chaos, string pulled tight, and for a second? the universe hangs on a single arrow.

then it misses because your depth perception is trash.

Bucky Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, Jimmy Jams Bucky Boy Buckaroo Metal Arm Extraordinaire— I swear to god, every time you brood against a rain-splattered window, somewhere in the distance a sad cello just spontaneously combusts.

You walk into a room and my brain does a triple backflip. Your arm goes clank, my soul goes oh no, and suddenly I am a Victorian maiden about to faint on the fainting couch that I do not own.

You’re a walking contradiction: an assassin who says “golly gee” like it’s still 1943, a grumpy murder teddy bear with hair so luscious it probably has its own Instagram sponsorship deal. Do you even know how feral it makes me that you wear Henleys like they’re government-issued uniforms? Someone arrest me. Or arrest you. I don’t care, just handcuffs better be involved.

You could breathe near me and I’d forgive you for every war crime Hydra made you do. Actually, don’t test that. I’m not emotionally stable enough for a court case.

Bucky Barnes, you beautiful disaster, you tragic hot mess wrapped in leather and trauma, you emotionally constipated soft-hearted idiot— you own me, ruin me, haunt me. I want to fix you. I want to break you. I want to bake you sourdough bread and then eat it off your abs like a completely unhinged TikTok trend.

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College Bucky Barnes, broke as a joke, Dreams of sex toys, but he’s flat-ass broke. Scholarships cover books, not fun, And his right hand’s tired — wrist’s undone.

He eyes the jar on the counter there, Smooth peanut butter, creamy and bare. Desperation’s a filthy thing, And tonight, that Skippy’s wearing his ring.

He mutters, “Don’t judge me, Steve,” to the air, (Though Steve’s asleep in the bunk upstairs.) The jar goes pop with a sinful twist, Bucky’s dick twitches, ready to risk.

A thrust, a gasp, a tragic moan, “This is better than jerking alone.” It’s sticky, warm, a perfect fit, “God bless America,” he groans mid-hit.

But oh, cruel fate, you wicked whore, Peanuts are poison, and Bucky wants more. Soon his cock is tingling, itching hot, “Oh fuck,” he cries, “This burns a LOT.”

He tries to ignore it, keeps thrusting away, (Sex and suffering, Bucky’s favorite foreplay.) But by the time he pulls out with a groan, His balls are red like a fire alarm zone.

He stumbles to the campus nurse, Each step a verse in a cursed reverse. You, the nurse, are just sipping tea, When the door slams open—it’s misery.

There he stands, half-hard, half-dead, Sweat on his brow, shame burning red. “Nurse,” he pants, “please help me fast, I think my dick’s having an allergic blast.”

You blink. You stare. You try to process, “How… exactly… did you make this mess?” Bucky groans, won’t meet your eye, “It was a jar of peanut butter… don’t ask why.”

You do ask why, because you must know, And he explains with his voice real low: “No money for toys, no girl to please, So I… y’know… gave Skippy a squeeze.”

You almost choke, you almost weep, This story’s so cursed it’ll haunt your sleep. But duty calls, you grab the cream, To soothe this boy’s unholy dream.

Gloves go on, ointment gleams, “This is not how I pictured my nursing dreams.” Bucky whimpers, dick all aflame, “I swear, Nurse, I’ll never nut this way again.”

“You BETTER not,” you snarl, so mad, “Next time, Barnes, use your goddamn hand.” But his cock twitches, traitorous, bold, Like it’s thinking of peanut butter’s hold.

Hours later, rumors spread, Of a freshman whose dick almost dropped dead. Now peanut butter’s banned in the dorm, A tragic tale becomes campus lore.

he is ink on paper, pixels on a screen, a story stretched a hundred different ways.

your trauma isn’t his, your headcanon isn’t law, and your hate isn’t holy scripture.

roses are red my rent is past due bucky lives under a bridge and still looks better than you

he's got a blanket (stolen) and a cat named stev if you give he five dollars he probably won't leave

he mutters "metal arm" when he digs thru the trash found half a pop-tart and called it a stash

sam says "bro get a job" steve says "he be trying" bucky says "stfu bitch, these pigeons be spying."

homeless but sexy, feral but free, if ytou see him on a corner he'll probs charge you a fee:

he broods on a roof like a feral raccoon someone give him chapstick or a fork and a spoon

he’s 100 years old but can’t work an iphone type “barnes” into google and it’s just trauma alone

metal arm clank emotional blank cries in the shower ‘cause the milk went rank

he tried therapy he tried some plums but mostly he sulks and reloads his guns

steve is gone sam is tired bucky just googled “how to not be wired”

king of staring champion of pout barnes is the reason why group chats shout

Charles is a hamster, a fuzzy demonic orb, he once saw a head of lettuce and whispered, “mine, you absorb.” eyes like twin headlights on a highway of sin, he doesn’t want enrichment—just lettuce, again.

seeds? no. wheel? pathetic. he craves lettuce aesthetic. a single romaine leaf drops to the floor, Charles enters god-mode—he demands more.

he crunches like thunder, he chomps like a god, every bite shakes the heavens, every chew makes you applaud.

scientists have studied him— they fear what he’ll become. a hamster fueled by lettuce?? the apocalypse has begun.

ok so. you see him. on the bench. the cursed tetanus bench. under the haunted tree.

hair? wet. even when it’s not raining. clothes? layers of sadness. arm? oh. oh the arm. shiny disco ball for depressed people.

do you keep walking? no. you look. every. single. time.

day three: you bring coffee. he looks at it like you just handed him a live grenade. doesn’t drink it. you cry internally. next day the cup is crushed. empty. he drank it. boom. you’re married.

then he starts showing up places. not just the bench. bodega. laundromat. the corner near your apartment. like a really solemn pokemon with only one move: brood.

should you be worried? yeah. are you? no. brain = static + raccoon noises.

then. rain. apocalyptic rain. he’s on the curb. soggy knife raccoon. you open the door. because obviously you do.

he comes in. drips on your floor. “sleeps” on your couch. except sometimes at 3am he’s standing in your bedroom doorway. watching. normal.

you try to help. you’re like: “i found a farm job.” he just blinks. “I don’t want to be a farmer.”

sir??? what do you mean. you like dirt. “not that kind.” oh. ok dirt taxonomy. sure.

time passes. jacket on your chair. boots by your door. he eats 80% of your lasagna. he stares at your lamp like it owes him money. hand pressed against the fridge like it’s god.

then one night. “My heart doesn’t know where home is anymore. But when I’m here… it feels like it does.”

girl. what.

you should run. you don’t. you just forehead-to-chest like, “ok i guess you live here forever.”

PLOT TWIST.

you turn on the tv. HE’S THERE. hair brushed. suit. CONGRESSMAN JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.

your groupchat: isn’t that your soggy roommate?? you: YEAH APPARENTLY HE’S IN POLITICS NOW.

and then. the law.

YEAR OF PERSPECTIVE every american must be homeless for one year. no exceptions. no yachts. no glamping.

“it builds character,” he says. ceos crying under bridges. hedge fund bros learning what a laundromat is. jeff bezos with a shopping cart.

you’re like. was this his plan all along? spoiler: yes.

he was mobbed up the whole time. the bench? across from the mob’s social club. the pigeons? spies. he was TESTING YOU.

you brought coffee. you let him drip on your carpet. you offered him a farm. you passed.

the mob calls you “kid” now. there’s a goat named Parliament who’s his sworn enemy. photo ops at petting zoos. congress hearings where he cuts mics with his metal hand. journalists writing think pieces like is he evil or just wet.

he brings you on stage once. squeezes your hand.

“I wouldn’t be here without her.” crowd goes feral. you die.

thanksgiving in a tent. he carves turkey with the arm. parliament eats the centerpiece. your dad whispers “is he safe?” and bucky says “safer than anyone who thinks they are.” cool. thanks for that riddle, sir.

so yeah. he was never just the soggy raccoon man on the bench. he was the mob’s congressman. the knife-arm politician. the man who made everyone homeless for a year “for perspective.”

and you? you’re the idiot who opened the door. who brought him coffee. who said yes without saying yes.

your heart: dumb. his home: the government. the world: feral.